I sat on a wall next to you
with cold bricks sinking through jeans,
guitar wrapped in my arms
like a kitten, wooden body warm
in afternoon sun.  You asked
“What can you play?”
so I picked out Spanish Romance
on blunt-knife strings with fingertips.  
There were no words, just notes
which chuckled up and down the frets
like blackbirds.  Rain pattered
on wood in domino spots,
cooled my face like your hands.  
You wanted me to sing
Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door
and people peered out
from under umbrellas
like cats looking through letter boxes .
You took off your hoody
to drape around my shoulders –  
“You’re beautiful when you sing.”
My cheeks warmed the raindrops.